


Time

by LdotRage



Series: Lost, Kept, Found [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Rekka no Ken | Fire Emblem: Blazing Sword
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, F/M, For the most part, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, but uh, it's not just suffering all the way through i promise, maybe in the sequel [eye emoji], no happy ending for these two yet, there is at least one (1) smile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 21:08:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17588444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LdotRage/pseuds/LdotRage
Summary: Eliwood is in mourning. Hector arrives to remind him of his son.





	Time

**Author's Note:**

> this ended up being a lot less gay and a lot more... depressing than I had intended  
> I mean, what did I expect though... Eliwood's wife is fuckin dead  
> anyway I wrote this for a contest on serenesforest and then expanded it for here, so hope it's to everyone's liking. also uh... lowkey planning on a sequel which will contain a happy ending for these two so... eye emoji?

In the otherwise silent room, a tentative knock on the door roused him from his fitful slumber.

“Milord?”

Still only half aware of himself, he shifted minutely in the silken bedsheets, then fell still again, far too lethargic to rise. He’d never really fallen asleep―only drifted; hardly even dozed―and he had no energy at all. The most he could do was pry open his crusty eyes and stare silently across the room.

Sprawled out on his side like this, all he could see was a small section of the wall, the corner of his wardrobe, and the very edge of the curtains, still tightly drawn. A sliver of light slanted across the carpet. He realized that he didn’t know what time it was, nor what day it was; he hadn’t even a wild guess. All he knew was that it couldn’t have been long since he last told Marcus to leave him alone.

“Milord,” the familiar voice repeated, soft and muffled through the door, but infuriatingly insistent.

His eyes slid shut of their own accord. He made no move to wipe away the gunk dried between his lashes. After a moment, he swallowed with some effort. “No visitors,” he croaked, his tongue heavy and his throat thick.

He caught the tail-end of Marcus’ beleaguered sigh, and irritation bubbled sluggishly in his chest. “Milord―”

 _“No visitors,_ I said,” he interrupted as sharply as he could. Even when he tried to speak up, his voice remained hoarse and reedy, wavering on each syllable.

Only a brief pause. Then: “Milord, Marquess Ostia requests―”

His ears were closed. “No,” he cut in immediately, not bothering to actually absorb the familiar name. _“Leave,_ Marcus.”

Another weary murmur of “Milord,” but it was cut off by heavy footsteps and a brief, hushed exchange that he couldn't quite catch. He heard the faint sounds of a scuffle, like two people to get through a narrow passage first; then the door rattled loudly in its frame, knob jiggling.

“Unlock it,” said a familiar deep voice, as sharp and steely as Armads itself.

Eliwood’s fingers twitched.

More hasty footsteps from outside. “I can’t disobey a direct order,” Marcus hissed; “You of all people should know―”

“I wasn’t talking to you.” Metal gauntlets banged against the door with a distinct sort of _clang-thud._ “Eliwood, open the door or I’ll break it down. You know I will.”

_“Marquess Ostia, please―”_

Whether it was the threat or the familiarity, something about that sentence made the blood boil in his frozen veins. “I said _‘no visitors’,”_ he growled, fists curling in the sheets and body tensing under the duvet. “I would think you’d at least have the decency to honor that―”

 _“Decency_ my ass.” The doorknob jerked again to no effect. “This is your last chance to open up before I come in anyway.”

“Lord Hector―!”

“As barbaric as ever, I see,” Eliwood snarled, clenched fists trembling as he turned to press his forehead into the mattress. Still, he couldn’t muster the strength to sit up, even as the rage pooled within his chest like a growing fire. “You’re still the same uncivilized, entitled _child―”_

“Let me in, damn you,” the child in question snapped with one last bang on the door. “It’s not a ‘visit’; it’s _important.”_

Eliwood seethed. “I _highly_ doubt―”

“It’s about Roy.”

In a single instant, all the anger that had built up underneath his skin turned to fear. Eliwood’s head snapped towards the door, his eyes snapped open, and every muscle in his body snapped taut. Immediately, he shoved himself off of the pillows, wedging one arm between his chest and the bed. “What?” he demanded, the hairs raising on the back of his neck. “What’s―what are you talking about? _What’s wrong with Roy?”_

 _“Lord Hector!”_ Marcus cried.

Eliwood barely registered it. He clawed at the sheets, pushing himself further up onto his arms. “No, no, _gods,”_ he gasped out, nausea curling in the pit of his stomach. Roy had been out of the woods―the first year of infancy was always fraught with peril, but the healers―they’d said―they’d said that he had _made it;_ that most of the danger had passed and he was going to be fine―

But he was going to die. He was going to die _now,_ now that his chances were good, just because the universe had a cruel sense of humor―now, while Eliwood was already in mourning―right after Ninian―

Stumbling across the room on weak, trembling knees, Eliwood threw the lock and shoved the door open, nearly falling directly into Hector’s arms. “What―what’s wrong with him?” he gasped, struggling to remain upright as he looked up into his old friend’s impassive face. “Please―”

“Nothing,” Hector said.

Eliwood’s rapid heartbeat didn’t slow. His eyes were wide and uncomprehending. “What―?”

Before he could formulate a proper question, Hector pushed his way through the door, forcing him to stumble back on numb legs. The backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and he lost his precarious balance, landing on the mattress. His shaking arms barely kept him propped half-upright.

“Roy’s fine,” Hector continued once Eliwood’s eyes were on him again. “At least, he isn’t sick or injured. Calm down.”

Still, the gears in Eliwood’s head were turning too sluggishly. “But―you said...”

Hector took one step back, leaning against the doorframe. “What I _said_ was ‘it’s about Roy’,” he corrected. “I worded it vaguely so you’d let me in.” Then, under his breath: “If I’d known you would take it this badly, I would’ve just broken the damn door down. Would’ve been easier.”

For a moment more, Eliwood just stared, incredulous. Then the terror began to subside―and a searing, all-consuming fury took its place.

 _“Hector,”_ he growled, his voice trembling with rage. His entire body felt red-hot, and his vision was blurry. All of that fear―all of that panic―and it was just a ruse. A lie. For lack of any other outlet, he lifted a fist and angrily drove it into his pillow. The motion was too restrained, though―it didn’t make his knuckles sting; the downy fabric offered no resistance―and it only made him angrier.

Faintly, he heard Hector say something like, “You should go. I’ve got this,” and the door swung shut. Then he pushed himself back onto his feet and, with all the finesse of a blind elephant, punched Hector hard in the face.

His body was unsteady from however-many hours of uninterrupted bedrest; Hector was far larger than him, and he had clearly seen the blow coming in time to brace himself. Still, all of Eliwood’s weight went into the punch, and it sent them both tumbling into the door with a loud _thud,_ Eliwood’s face ricocheting off of Hector’s chest plate.

The blow to the head, the sudden movement, and his body’s weakness all caught up to him at once. Swooning like a sick child, Eliwood collapsed onto the ground, hastily trying to scramble away before Hector could retaliate. Too late. Armored fingers gripped him by the back of his collar, cold against his skin flushed with anger, and he saw himself be hoisted off the ground more than he felt it.

“Let _go_ of me,” he snarled, clawing at Hector’s hand, even as he struggled to stand without help. The indignity of being lifted by the scruff of his neck like a disobedient kitten just made his ire burn brighter. “Let go, you _bastard!_ You wretched―craven― _cur!”_

“Eliwood, stop,” Hector said. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Shockingly, this blatant condescension did very little to appease Eliwood, who immediately threw another wild jab at Hector’s gut. Of course, given that he was in his nightclothes while his opponent was in full armor, it was completely ineffectual, and he only ended up with a stinging hand for his troubles. Stubbornly biting down a pained yelp, he grit his teeth and managed to yank himself out of Hector’s grip, landing in an undignified pile on the ground. “Don’t _touch_ me,” he bit out, trying not to let on how winded he was already. _“Leave._ Get _out―”_

“Absolutely not,” Hector interrupted, stepping closer. “Get a hold of yourself. We need to talk.”

Some small part of Eliwood’s brain was still functional enough to be wary of Hector, whose superior size was even more evident now. Still, he bared his teeth recklessly, even as he pushed himself back. _“Get a hold of myself?”_ His voice wavered with emotion and overuse. “You burst in here, lie about my son―”

“Look,” Hector said shortly, interrupting him _again,_ “I’m sorry that I scared you. But―”

“But _nothing!_ You―” Trying to push himself onto his feet, Eliwood swayed, nearly fainted, and staggered back to sit heavily on the edge of the mattress. Hector stepped forward as if to steady him, and Eliwood weakly shoved him away. “You―you let me think―you just _stood there_ and let me think―”

There were tears pricking at the corners of his eyes now, and they were all the more mortifying because they weren’t borne of frustration. If he was being honest with himself, it was mostly just that same crushing despair that seemed to plague him far too often as of late.

And then Hector stepped forward and _hugged_ him―as if they weren’t in the middle of a fight―and Eliwood suddenly felt very foolish.

“L-let go of me,” he croaked―damn it, he was _twenty-two;_ he shouldn’t be brought to tears this easily―but Hector just pulled him closer, squishing him uncomfortably between solid metal gauntlets and a cold, hard chest plate. “Do you―do you even―”

He was crying in earnest, now, because the anger had finally faded, and it left a cold, bitter emptiness in its wake. “Do you have _any idea_ how _scared_ I was?” he keened into Hector’s armor, still not returning the hug, but not trying to get away from it, either.

For a moment, there was no response, and Eliwood fought to reign in his tears. Then Hector lowered his head, clenched his fists, and shot back, “Do _you_ have any idea how _long_ it’s been?”

Eliwood reeled. “Wh-what?”

“Do you have _any idea._ How _long it’s been.”_ Hector didn’t pull away from the hug, but the forceful tone of his voice belied his true feelings.

Swallowing thickly, Eliwood tried once again to pull out of Hector’s arms to no avail. “No.”

“Not even a guess?”

He clenched his teeth. _“No,_ Hector, not even a guess. Are you happy now? Have you humiliated me enou―?”

“Two weeks.”

Eliwood stopped talking for only the briefest moment. Then he stupidly blurted out, “You’re lying.”

Hector didn’t even dignify that with a response. “They put the funeral off for as long as they could,” he said instead, and dread welled up in Eliwood’s stomach. “But her body was decaying. They had to bury her quickly before her soul could fade.”

Clutching desperately at the grooves of Hector’s armor to keep himself from collapsing, Eliwood blinked the remaining tears out of his eyes. “Th-they―why didn’t they tell me―?”

“They tried.”

Eliwood had suspected as much―now that he stopped to think of it, he recalled plenty of fuzzy, vague memories: Marcus banging on the door more forcefully than usual; someone shaking him and trying to pull the blankets off of him―but he’d turned them all away. He’d turned them away, and he’d―

“I missed it,” he said aloud, numbly. “I missed her―”

 _“Hey._  Stop that,” Hector interrupted before he could even really begin, tightening his grip to the point where he was practically crushing Eliwood between pieces of plate and pinching chainmail. It was just on the verge of painful, but it managed to stop Eliwood’s whirling thoughts for a few more seconds. A few more blessed moments of almost-peace. “Look, I can’t stop you from grieving, or feeling sorry for yourself, or whatever the hell you’ve been doing in here for the past two weeks. But there’s a difference between _wallowing_ and _wasting away,_ and this? This is the latter.”

Eliwood lowered his head and took a shaky breath. The scent of armor polish and musty leather that usually clung to Hector was completely swallowed by the dead air lingering in the room―the stench of dust and sweat and bedsheets that hadn’t been changed in two weeks.

“I know,” he said weakly.

After a brief, strained silence, Hector slowly drew back, relaxing his grip. Without the support, Eliwood slumped limply against the headboard, unable to hold himself upright. His muscles felt like wet string, his bones as brittle as icicles. Everything was sore and aching, though his pulsing knuckles stood out, starkly discolored against his otherwise sallow skin.

Another moment of tense silence. Then, unable to meet Hector’s eyes, Eliwood cleared his throat and murmured, “Roy?”

“Like I said, he’s not sick,” Hector answered without making him elaborate, “but he isn’t exactly doing great. He hasn’t seen _either_ of his parents in weeks. And he isn’t taking to Rebecca very well.”

A wave of guilt crashed over Eliwood, but he brushed it aside to be wallowed in later. “Rebecca?” She and Lowen had recently given birth to a son of their own, but what did she have to do with Roy?

An armored hand landed on his shoulder with uncharacteristic gentleness. “Marcus took the liberty of finding him a nursemaid,” Hector said, his voice soft.

Eliwood swallowed thickly. “Ah.”

He felt the considering look that Hector shot him, even though he had yet to look up from his lap. “He’s only an infant, Eliwood,” Hector continued after a moment. “You need to realize―he doesn’t know the difference between death and temporary disappearance.”

 _Of course_ he didn’t. It was so obvious that, in different circumstances, it might have rankled at Eliwood’s pride. He didn’t need to be told that his son wasn’t old enough for cognizant thought, thank you very much.

Except, apparently, he did.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said, suddenly desperate to let Hector know that he hadn’t abandoned his own son on purpose. “I didn’t―I just didn’t―”

“I know,” Hector cut in, perfectly calm. “But you did it anyway. All you can do now is fix it.”

(That was something Hector had always been way too good at. Cutting through all of Eliwood’s protests in an instant―not shutting them down; just reminding him that it didn’t matter. All that mattered was what he did and said now.)

His son. Roy. Ninian was gone, but Roy―Roy was still here, and so was he.

Exhausted though he was, Eliwood tried to summon up even a modicum of new resolve. “I’ll go see him,” he declared with more certainty than he felt, trying to push himself towards the edge of the bed.

Before he could make much headway, Hector grabbed both of his legs and pushed him back onto the mattress. “You will do _no such thing,”_ he snapped, “seeing as how you can barely stand.”

At this point, Eliwood was too weary to be angry, but he did manage to flush in embarrassment. “I’m not an invalid, Hector―”

“You didn’t draw blood.”

Eliwood blinked. “...What?”

Hector jabbed a thumb towards his nose, which was noticeably bruised but otherwise unharmed. “You punched me as hard as you could, and it didn’t even draw blood,” he said matter-of-factly, somehow managing to keep the judgment out of his voice. “Then you fainted.”

Shame bubbled up in Eliwood’s chest at the memory, and it had nothing to do with his admittedly frail physical state. He _had_ punched Hector as hard as he could, and, whether it had drawn blood or not, he’d done it with the intent to injure. As if Hector had actually wronged him, rather than taking time out of his schedule to come drag Eliwood out of his own miserable self-pity.

What he should have said was _‘I’m sorry’,_ but what ended up coming out of his mouth was just a half-hearted “I didn’t faint.”

“You nearly did,” Hector replied without missing a beat, grabbing the blankets and tossing them inelegantly over Eliwood’s lap. “You do need to get out of bed―walk around, get some fresh air, see your kid―but you need to rest a bit first.” He leveled Eliwood with a fierce stare that was impossible to break. “When you’re feeling a bit less woozy, _then_ we can go see Roy. I won’t help you if you don’t want me to, but I’m not leaving until you can walk on your own again.”

Eliwood’s insides trembled, but he couldn’t identify the emotion that made them shake. After a moment, he swallowed thickly, his throat working. “Why are you even here?” he asked very, very belatedly, refusing to admit that his eyes were getting damp again.

Something shifted in Hector’s expression, turning it from stern and unyielding to almost... pained. A breath of silence later, he averted his eyes just slightly, staring at the pillow beside Eliwood’s head.

“Don’t make me answer that,” he said gruffly. There was a strange sort of vulnerability in his voice, and Eliwood suddenly felt as if he was intruding upon a private moment; a display of weakness behind closed doors that he had no right to witness.

Unable to bear the look on Hector’s face any longer, he mimicked Hector’s minuscule glance to the side, giving the illusion of looking at him without actually risking eye contact. “I’m not questioning your motives,” he said softly after a moment. “Just your means.” Or perhaps that was a bit too vague. “I mean... I know _why_ you’re here, but... _how_ are you here? I thought...” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I thought you, of all people, wouldn’t have time to spare for a funeral.”

He hadn’t even had the wherewithal to send out the news of Ninian’s passing, though he supposed Marcus would have done it in his stead.

“...I didn’t,” Hector admitted. “When I got the news... Oswin talked me out of coming down immediately. But I sent my condolences, and, a few days ago, Marcus wrote back, letting me know of your... condition. So...” He shrugged. “I came.”

That meant more than Hector could have possibly known, but Eliwood tried to suppress the almost violent surge of helpless gratitude that shuddered through him. Almost immediately, the affection in his chest turned to guilt―he’d been treating Hector like shit; he’d been all but spitting on Ninian’s memory―and he was immensely thankful for the lack of eye contact between them.

“Thank you,” he said eventually, trying to instill some sincerity into his voice despite how physically and emotionally exhausted he was.

Hector cleared his throat, then turned around sharply and strode towards the curtains. “You should get some light in here,” he said, drawing one just enough to let a beam of faint sunlight fall across the room.

“Thank you,” Eliwood repeated quietly, staring down at his lap.

For a very long time, there was no response; not even the sound of footsteps or Hector’s usual impatient foot tapping. Eliwood kept his eyes on his folded hands until he couldn’t bear the silence anymore, then slowly looked up, fighting down a brief spike of irrational fear. “Hector?”

Hector was standing in front of the window, staring at the ground next to Eliwood’s bed. After a minute, he slowly moved towards the bed, crouching down as if to count the floorboards, but he still didn’t speak. “Hector?” Eliwood asked again, curiosity and apprehension overriding his intense desire to stay silent.

Another moment passed before Hector glanced up at Eliwood, making no move to stand. His face was unreadable.

“Is this really all you’ve eaten?” he asked, soft and sad―like he already knew the answer but desperately hoped that he was wrong.

It was such a strange, almost tender tone of voice that Eliwood almost missed the words themselves. Swallowing, he leaned forward, steadying himself on one arm, and glanced over the side of the bed.

Scattered at Hector’s feet were several abandoned meal trays, each one heavy-laden with dishes, and each dish full of stone-cold food. Stale bread; wrinkled fruit without a bite missing; bowls of soup that were now nothing more than murky broth; oatmeal sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon, now congealed into something inedible and disgusting to even look at. None of it looked like it had been touched.

Eliwood averted his eyes quickly. “I think... Marcus may have taken some of the dishes away,” he said. He didn’t bother mentioning that those dishes had been just as untouched as these ones.

For a moment, there was no response, and Eliwood almost deluded himself into believing that Hector would just let it go. Then he lowered his head and said, so quietly that Eliwood almost didn’t register the voice as _Hector’s_ at all, “I can’t stand to see you do this to yourself.”

There were nails in Eliwood’s throat. Nails and little bits of glass. Trying to force saliva down to clear it out, he stared intently at his hands, face red, and didn’t say a word.

A long, heavy silence fell upon them. Then―mercifully, without further remark―Hector leaned forward and began to gather as many of the trays as he could carry. “I’ll tell Marcus to bring something,” he said without attempting eye contact.

Just as well―Eliwood couldn’t bear to look up from the duvet, either. “I... don’t know that I can keep anything down,” he said honestly.

“Then I’ll tell him to bring something light.” Hector’s voice was firm―the same commanding tone he usually brought into battle. “Once you’ve had a few bites, I’ll bring Roy up here. You just―try to look presentable enough that he doesn’t start crying again.”

That... stung more than anything else Hector had said so far. But it was honest advice, so Eliwood just nodded feebly.

Once he’d piled his arms high with mostly-full plates of wasted food, Hector rose to his feet again, knees cracking. “Don’t think I got everything, but this should help the smell,” he muttered, sweeping a critical look across the room. Whether it met his approval or not, he didn’t have even a finger free to tidy up, so he just made for the door. “I’ll be back once you’ve eaten,” he promised, wedging the trays between himself and the wall so he could turn the knob with one hand.

“Thank you,” Eliwood said miserably, and neither one looked at the other.

Halfway across the threshold, Hector paused, dishes clanging in his hands. Then, without turning around, he quietly mused, “I guess I’ll... keep Roy company until then. S’been a while since he’s seen me, so he probably doesn’t remember, but... I dunno. Maybe I can calm him down a little.”

Despite his feigned nonchalance, the words were exactly as comforting as he’d probably intended―but they left Eliwood with the striking feeling that, while he wasn’t looking, Hector had become far more mature than he. “...Thank you,” he said for the umpteenth time, for lack of anything better to say.

Only when the door closed with a quiet _click_ did he finally let out a breath.

Slowly, he looked around the room that had once been so familiar to him. It seemed so different, now―and not just because of Ninian’s absence, he realized. There were new marks on the wallpaper―tears; stains; even a shallow, fist-sized dent in the wall, surrounded by a spiderweb of cracks. There were things missing from the shelves and tables, too―old jewelry (had she been buried in it?), ornaments and knick-knacks (some of the missing ones matched the tiny glass shards he could spy hiding in the rug), books and papers (the papers still present were, as a whole, more tattered than before). Most of his remaining belongings had been subtly shifted out of his reach―placed on high shelves, or underneath heavy stacks of books.

Rather suddenly, he realized that he didn’t remember how any of these changes had come to be―he didn’t even remember anyone being in here for long enough to make those changes; he didn’t remember what he had done to _warrant_ them―and the utter lack of knowledge made nausea curl tightly in his stomach. Anything could have happened in the past two weeks, and he would be none the wiser. The Lycian League could have crumbled. Pherae could’ve burned to the ground. He could’ve assaulted one of the servants.

Roy could have fallen ill.

Desperate for a foothold, he glanced rapidly around the room, trying to assess what was still there. His rapier―had been relocated to the top of his wardrobe, where he had no hopes of reaching it in his current state. Had this been a precaution, or a reaction? Had they merely feared that he might harm someone, or had they been trying to prevent a repeat incident? It was sheathed. He couldn’t check for new nicks or stains on the blade.

The wardrobe was shut; presumably, all of their clothes were still tucked away inside, but―what had they taken for Ninian? What had they buried her in? She’d made a request on her deathbed―she’d said that she wanted to be buried in the old ceremonial garb that danced in. She’d said it was a reminder of the family she’d left behind the Gate, but also a reminder of how she’d fallen in love with him so deeply that she wanted to stay. Had they known? Who could have told the monks not to bury her in the customary shroud, if not him? Had he failed her in this, too?

The papers on his desk in the corner were sandwiched between heavy books to straighten them out; they’d been crushed and crumpled and torn―were they important? Which papers had been within his reach when he threw that particular tantrum? Official documents? Missives? Correspondence? The old letters―the personal letters―the letter from Hector about the birth of his daughter; the envelope stuffed full of little notes they’d passed in numbers class; the yellowed old parchment they’d found hidden in Father’s study, a final goodbye to his family if he never returned―his marriage documents, carefully folded and tucked away beneath it all―were they intact? Had Marcus saved them? Had they been spared?

How many different colors of broken glass could he spy on the floor, glimmering faintly in the light? How many had Marcus already cleared away, missing only those tiny pieces hidden in the carpet or between the floorboards? How many _other_ things had Marcus cleared away while he was trapped within his own head? There were new stains on the rugs that could have been from food, ink, vomit, or blood. There were cracks in the bedposts that could explain the tiny slivers of wood caught underneath his fingernails. His throat was like sandpaper, and he didn’t know if it was because he hadn’t spoken, or because he’d screamed himself hoarse, or because he’d retched until only dry heaves could surface anymore.

He didn’t know a gods damned thing.

Eliwood’s eyes moved to the hearth, burning low, the embers glowing faintly. He looked up above the mantle.

He found it bare.

“No,” he said aloud, but that was all he said. Collapsing back onto the mattress, he pressed both hands firmly over his eyes. Was that the source of the splinters? The faint red spots on his knees where the skin was peeling away? The specks of color on the carpet?

In his helpless anger, had he destroyed the last piece of her that was left?

He hadn’t the slightest idea how long it took for Marcus to arrive. When he heard the first soft _rap_ at the door, though, he immediately sat up, ramrod straight, and shouted, “Come in!” before Marcus had a chance to knock again.

There was a pause―no doubt Marcus was caught off-guard by his sudden change in attitude―but then the door slowly creaked open and the old knight unobtrusively slipped in. He moved as if he expected to be attacked―no; as if he was trying to remain undetected, because he knew he would be banished if his presence was known. There was a wooden tray in his hands.

“Milord,” he said once he seemed convinced that nothing was amiss, hastily crossing the room and placing the tray across Eliwood’s lap, “Marquess Ostia indicated that you might appreciate something easy to digest―”

Really, Eliwood should’ve been on his knees, apologizing profusely and begging for forgiveness, but all he managed to do was frantically interrupt, “Marcus, wait―the painting―where’s the painting?”

Immediately, Marcus’ face fell, and Eliwood’s heart plummeted down into his twisting gut. “Milord,” Marcus said, almost plaintively, which was all the answer Eliwood needed. He truly had destroyed it, then. In the height of his folly―the height of his stupidity―he’d apparently decided that the minuscule satisfaction of letting out his anger physically was worth losing his last tie to her.

Worth destroying Roy’s only hope of remembering his own mother’s face.

 _“Milord,”_ Marcus said again, and Eliwood looked up without really meaning to.

The old knight―getting older, now, yet considerably less feeble than him at the moment―crossed the room in a few quick strides and threw the wardrobe open. Eliwood had just enough time to notice that most of Ninian’s clothes were gone―the ceremonial garb she’d asked to be buried in was gone―and then Marcus pushed the remaining garments aside, brushing past woolen cloaks and fur coats and silk shirts, to pull a large wooden frame out from the back. Then, without fanfare, he lifted the frame into his arms and turned it to face Eliwood.

“Milord,” Marcus said, one more time, “we... salvaged it as best we could.”

Eliwood stared at the painting for a very long time, his throat too dry to produce words, even if he had been in any state to try. The portrait was almost exactly as he remembered it. He and Ninian were standing side-by-side, painted from the waist up with a startling level of detail; one of his arms was folded behind his back, the other extended for her to lean on as if he was formally offering to escort her. They’d insisted on that pose because the painter had flatly forbidden them to outright embrace―that sort of intimacy was improper for public display, and the painting would be relocated to the main hall once the next Marquess took the throne―but, like his father and mother before him, Eliwood hadn’t wanted their portrait together to look as stilted as the rest.

For as finicky and strict as he’d been at the time, constantly snapping at them to hold still and declaring that now the whole thing was _ruined,_ the painter was as skilled as they came. He’d captured Ninian’s essence perfectly. Eliwood hadn’t been able to properly appreciate it until now, but the elegant drape of her hair was just right; her lithe form hadn’t been lost to the fabric of her clothes, nor stylized into something more smooth and traditionally feminine; her gentle smile was not lifeless or wooden, but a living, breathing display of her endless patience and light touch.

She was perfect, even despite the new cracks that ran across the surface of the painting, tracing jagged lines where the canvas had been ripped, torn, and painstakingly pieced back together. The paint had chipped away around the ends of her hair; her torso was bisected by a rift large enough to show the back of the frame; one of the cracks was even so audacious as to trace the side of her cheek like an ugly black scar―but she was perfect.

It was Eliwood who’d been ravaged beyond repair or even recognition, large segments of the canvas missing from his inaugural garb; cracks marring his face so thoroughly that the color used for his eyes was no longer visible at all; flakes of bright red scratched off of his hair and embedded conspicuously in the white of his clothes.

But Ninian had barely been touched.

“I’m sorry, milord,” Marcus said after a good minute had passed in silence, lowering his eyes to the ground. “After what you... After _what happened,_ we were... This was all that was left.”

It took another thirty seconds or so for Eliwood to regain his voice. As soon as it returned to him, he looked up from the painting and said, completely insufficiently, but with all of the feeling he could muster: “Thank you, Marcus. This is... more than enough.”

That was enough to drag Marcus’ attention away from his feet, and, for a moment, he just stared at Eliwood, his eyes wide. Then he relaxed―only now did Eliwood realize how tense he’d been before―and easily replied, “Of course, milord. It was the least I could do.”

* * *

 

When Hector returned ten minutes later, the bowl of thin broth in Eliwood’s lap was nearly empty and the painting had been returned to its rightful place above the mantle.

Marcus had long since taken his leave, though not before accepting the apology Eliwood had finally managed to choke out, so the room was quiet, save for the _clink_ of his spoon against the bowl. The atmosphere wasn’t quite as heavy anymore―even just letting a bit of sunlight in and removing the stack of garbage had livened it up considerably.

Still, Eliwood didn’t truly awaken from his stupor until he turned and saw Roy in Hector’s arms.

It was easy to forget, sometimes, just how _small_ Roy was. He’d certainly grown since his birth, but he was still easily dwarfed by Hector’s arm, swaddled in blankets that only served to make him look smaller. His hair was starting to really stick out now―bright red, like his father’s and his grandfather’s before him.

Eliwood had been hoping for teal hair, or perhaps scarlet-orange eyes, but Ninian had smiled so brightly when the first few tufts started coming in crimson. _“I want him to be all you,”_ she had said. _“I want that man’s blood to end with me.”_

Logically, they both knew that looking like a Pheraen noble wouldn’t make their little Roy any less Nergal or any less dragon. Even though he’d wanted their son to have a piece of his mother, though, Eliwood couldn’t deny that the thought of Nergal’s hair color vanishing entirely made him rather happy.

Now, thoughts of lineage and genes couldn’t have been farther from his mind.

Perhaps a bit too eagerly, Eliwood shoved aside his tray and sat up as straight as he could, his eyes trained on the mess of red hair sticking out from the bundle of blankets. Hector eyed the bowl critically, trying to gauge how much had been eaten, but seemed to deem it empty enough, because he stepped forward and placed Roy in Eliwood’s extended arms without much fuss.

Since Roy’s birth, Eliwood had gotten accustomed to carrying his infant son, so his arms curled around Roy automatically, cradling him like the most precious thing in the world. Still, he felt as awkward and out-of-his-depth as ever staring down at that little sleeping face, so similar to his, yet so... _tiny._

After a moment, the change in arms seemed to register with Roy, who stirred, his eyes fluttering open with a quiet murmur.

Eliwood’s chest swelled, as if his heart was physically growing within him. Almost unconsciously, a huge grin beamed across his face.

“Hey, buddy,” he said softly, smiling down at his son’s bleary blue eyes. “Hey. It’s Daddy.”

He’d half expected Roy to either not react at all or burst into tears; the two weeks of separation was probably much longer for the short memory of a baby. Perhaps he wouldn’t even recognize Eliwood anymore; perhaps he was old enough to hold grudges and remember Eliwood as _the one who abandoned him._

Instead, Roy immediately returned his smile, gurgling happily and trying to stretch one tiny arm up towards his face. Eliwood couldn’t help but laugh, the relief overwhelming enough to bring tears to the corners of his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered, “I’m back. Daddy’s right here, kiddo. I’m so sorry that I was gone for so long.” Blinking the tears away, he cradled Roy closer against his chest in a gentle approximation of a hug. “It’s just me and you now, buddy,” he whispered. “I promise I won’t leave you like that again. Not ever again, okay?” Hiking Roy up farther in his arms, he leaned down until his son’s tiny fingers could grasp at his stubble-covered chin. “Oh, I’m surprised you recognize me, buddy―I haven’t shaved. I’m setting such a bad example.”

“Maybe he’ll be able to grow a better beard than his old man,” Hector muttered.

Eliwood jumped. He’d completely forgotten that they weren’t alone. How embarrassing. When he glanced up at Hector, though, the teasing look on the other man's face had already faded into something unreadable.

Clearing his throat, Hector looked at the far wall as he edged towards the door. “Right. I’ll just... let you two catch up,” he said.

“Hector, wait,” Eliwood quickly intervened, and Hector froze in place. “Come on―sit down. Don’t leave so soon.” He patted the edge of the mattress.

The invitation clearly baffled Hector, judging by the startled look on his face, but, if he wanted to leave, he didn’t let on that he did. Without complaint, he slowly slid back towards them, sinking down on the bed where Eliwood had indicated with his back facing its occupants.

Eliwood huffed out a fond, exasperated sigh. “Hector.” Rather than tell the other man to come closer, though, he slid his own legs across the mattress, the duvet and sheets tangling awkwardly as he pushed himself to the edge of the bed and sidled up next to Hector.

“Is that what you want, buddy?” he asked Roy, dutifully ignoring Hector’s sputtered protests of how he should be laying down and not wasting his energy. “You want a great big beard like Uncle Hector’s?”

Carefully, he lowered Roy into his lap, liberating his stubble from Roy’s tiny fist, only to lift him back up towards Hector’s much hairier chin. Hector made a surprised noise, jolting in place, but didn’t pull away. “Uncle Hector _never_ shaves,” Eliwood whispered conspiratorially, leaning into Hector’s side so that Roy could see both of them.

“That’s because I can actually grow a decent beard,” Hector grumbled, still frozen in place.

As if to show his support, Roy reached up and grabbed as much of Hector’s beard as he could get into one hand, then proceeded to stuff most of that into his mouth.

Hector yelped―straight-up _yelped,_ like a dog whose tail had just been stepped on―and Eliwood couldn’t help it: he threw back his head and laughed so heartily that his throat and his chest both ached. “I―I think that’s his sign of approval,” he giggled helplessly, leaning most of his weight into Hector. “Oh―Hector, try giving him your finger; he doesn’t suck on those as much―”

Grumble though he might, though, Hector ultimately couldn’t bring himself to extricate his whiskers from Roy’s grasp, so Roy let go when he was good and ready, eventually losing interest and instead trying to reach for the tassel of Hector’s armor. “He’s got good taste,” Eliwood ribbed, elbowing Hector lightly, but the other Marquess just muttered indistinctly under his breath.

Soon enough, though, Roy began to drift back to sleep―Eliwood was shocked to see him go so long without crying or needing a change, but he wasn’t going to look the gift horse in the mouth. He just rocked Roy gently, trying to mimic Ninian’s usual pattern of soft _“shh”s_ and whispers. Amazingly, it seemed to work, and Roy fell back asleep again without much fuss.

Eliwood continued to rock him long after he’d gone still, whispering nonsense under his breath. A tear or two found its way to his cheek, but he didn’t bother wiping them away; they dripped off of his chin and vanished into Roy’s blankets.

Eventually, Hector began to shift uncomfortably, so Eliwood took the hint and released the other man from underneath his weight. “Thank you, Hector,” he whispered, mindful of Roy’s precarious slumber. “I mean it.”

He didn’t have to look up from his son to know that Hector was looking away almost bashfully, the same way he always demurred from a compliment, but he looked up anyway. “No problem,” Hector muttered gruffly, scratching the back of his head as he slowly rose to his feet. “I should be taking off, though... duty calls.”

“Of course.” Eliwood couldn’t stand up without risking disturbing Roy, but he did nod his head in lieu of a very formal bow. “Thank you again, old friend.”

Again, Hector’s eyes flickered away. “Er, right...” He began edging towards the door. “No problem―”

Filled with a sudden resolve, Eliwood interrupted with a firm “No,” reaching forward with one arm to grab Hector’s hand. The shocked look Hector sent him wasn’t even enough to dissuade him―not when Roy was sleeping peacefully in his arms and he had Hector to thank. “It's not ‘no problem’. _Thank you._ I mean it, Hector.” And then, impulsively, he brought Hector’s hand up to his face, pressing his forehead against the steel knuckles of his gauntlets. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

After a moment, he tilted his head up to meet Hector’s eyes and found them wide and startled. Dumbstruck, Hector opened and closed his mouth without saying a word, his throat working visibly. Ultimately, Eliwood decided to show mercy on the poor man, who clearly had no idea how to respond, and finally released his hand, leaning back over to place a kiss on Roy’s forehead. Similarly, he pretended not to notice when Hector took a slow step back, then turned and fled from the room.

“Just you, Daddy, and Uncle Hector, now, Roy,” Eliwood whispered to his sleeping son, pressing another feather-light kiss to Roy’s forehead. “But Mommy still loves you very much... we all love you so very, very much...”


End file.
